


Knowing

by kuonji



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Episode Related, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-26
Updated: 2012-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-02 13:53:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuonji/pseuds/kuonji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you have to truly know something in your heart before you can believe it with your mind. And sometimes, it's the other way around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knowing

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative Links:  
> <http://starskyhutch911.livejournal.com/227903.html>

The bar was different at night and with no case to work. When they'd come here in the daytime, it'd seemed empty and tacky. In the near-dark, with people talking and laughing and music playing, it was cozy and comfortable. It was easy to close your eyes and imagine an endless party carousing around you, where you were invisible as a ghost.

The usual crowd sounds provided a background noise, mixing in and out with the jazzy numbers that seemed to be the theme today. Cigarette smoke permeated the slightly over-warm air. A few seats over, two men were shouting a conversation at each other, laughing drunkenly all the while. The clink of glasses came from closer by.

Barry White crooned to a close, and instead of starting the next song, the DJ boomed boisterously into the microphone, announcing the nightly stage act. Starsky stopped listening after the first few lines. Sugar's act was mostly the same from day to day, the jokes recycled and changed only slightly.   He -- damn it, she? -- purportedly rewrote the whole thing once a month.

Opening his eyes, Starsky downed the rest of his drink and set the glass down on the bartop. The barkeep raised an eyebrow, but Starsky waved him away. He wasn't here to get drunk.

He looked down the length of the bar, at the variety of men ranged along it. Some were primped up the way Starsky had expected when he first came here -- neckerchiefs and spangled jeans and tight T's that left very little to the imagination. Some looked like normal working-class joes. The pair of shouting men were wearing suits, and Starsky wondered what their day jobs were.

John had used to sit in this section, he'd been told, though no one remembered exactly which seat he'd been in the night he'd been murdered. It didn't much matter.

Starsky tried to picture it in his head -- John, after a long day at work, coming here to unwind. Just like most middle-aged married cops who needed a moment to themselves, so that they wouldn't bring their work home with them to their families. Except John had come to _this_ side of town. He'd sat in _this_ bar. He'd maybe eyed one of those spangled swishes and found him... attractive.

Starsky scrubbed his face with his hands.

_Fuck, John. What were you doing?_

He pulled out his wallet and tried to see well enough in the dim light not to pay either ten bucks or a twenty for a single shot of whiskey.

"Excuse me."

A tall man, probably early forties, leaned in and shot Starsky a cocky grin. His dark hair was gelled within an inch of its life, and his skintight shirt dipped outrageously low to show off his hairy chest. He indicated the stool neighboring Starsky's. "Is this seat taken?"

Starsky glared at him, a sudden wave of absolute disgust and loathing pounding through him. The man's expression slipped, and he backed away with his palms up. "Hey, okay."  He hurried off.

"Mister, you need to stop scaring the customers, or Sugar's going to throw you out." The barkeep shook his head at Starsky, winking one watery eye.

Starsky was seized by a furious urge to leap across the bar and rip that eye out, knock out a few of his yellow teeth, break a few of his knobby fingers.

Had he been there? Had he watched John come in night after night? Had he shaken his ugly head of stringy hair and called John 'mister', and wiped the bar casually, while some two-bit hooker drugged John and lead him away?

"David."

The quiet voice cut directly through all the ambient noise, like a thought in Starsky's own head. Gasping, Starsky blinked. The seat next to him was empty now, but he could have sworn he'd seen John sitting there for a moment. The image was so strong. He'd seen John's exhausted eyes, asking him a question.

Alcohol with not enough to eat. That must be it.

Shaking slightly, Starsky pulled out what he thought was a dollar. He slapped the bill on the bar without checking, and he left the Green Parrot behind for the last time.

 

***

 

 _This is a mistake_ , Starsky thought to himself, even as he showed the greaseball disguised as a man at the front desk his badge.

Even so, he made his way up the stairs again and down the short hall, shouldering aside his misgivings and staring down his memories. The room was unoccupied, despite having been cleared by the police two days ago. Maybe word had got around that a man had died there.

Starsky pushed open the door. Early morning sunlight made it look only slightly better than it had before. Without the sweltering heat of the afternoon, at least it was possible to breathe.

With no real purpose, Starsky found himself wandering, touching, fiddling, looking. He wound up at the window. Not much of a view. A brick wall stared him in the face. Below was a small lot with a few cars, and down the street, more dingy buildings all but identical to this one. He spread one palm on the windowpane, remembering how Hutch had pounded at it with one fist, as if doing so could somehow give them answers to an unbelievable situation.

Taking a breath, Starsky turned to look at the bed. Surprisingly, the first thought he had was not of John lying there, dead, but of John lying there -- alive.

John had rented this room for over a year. This room, which was nothing more than a nightstand, a tiny closet of a toilet, and a place to sleep. Starsky might not have a college degree, but he knew John and Whitelaw hadn't been sitting around playing tiddlywinks in here.

And when Whitelaw had no longer been in the picture? What kind of men had John brought here? Had he hidden under these worn sheets and committed adultery with a succession of hookers?

_Dammit, John! Why'd you have to be here?_

Starsky dropped to his knees beside the bed, in a parody of prayer. He leaned his forehead on the mattress, imagining the unimaginable -- twisting tangles of bare skin and sweat, smothered cries of guilt and want.

Just what had John needed that Maggie couldn't provide, safe at home?

"David. I have to tell you something."

Starsky shot up and stumbled backwards, landing on his ass. His gaze skittered around the room, searching. He'd felt a hand on his shoulder. He was sure of it.

But there was no one here.

 

***

 

The doorbell made an actual ding-dong chime, versus the buzz that most apartments had nowadays. Starsky pressed it a third time. He wondered why it hadn't occurred to him that no one might be home. Whitelaw was probably out for the weekend campaigning.

But a second later, the door opened.

Peter Whitelaw looked more or less the way he had last week, the first and only other time they'd met. He wore a white shirt and brown slacks despite the fact he was apparently alone at home, making Starsky wonder if he ever dressed down.

"Detective," Whitelaw said, his voice polite but his eyes accusatory. When last they'd seen each other, Whitelaw had seemed mechanical, barely there emotionally. Starsky had thought him a cool bastard, but maybe that had just been shock.

"I'm just David today. May I come in?"

Whitelaw looked wary for a moment. Then he stepped back and waved Starsky in with a faintly curious air. "Orange juice?" he offered.

"Yes, thank you."

"Have a seat."

Following his gesture, Starsky rounded the fabric couch that dominated the living room and sat gingerly in the middle of it. He caught a glimpse, as he passed, of the separate kitchen into which Whitelaw disappeared. He heard the sound of a refrigerator opening and closing.  He looked around as the gurgle of liquid into glass drifted softly out.

The living room was spare and neat. The decorations were maybe not overtly masculine, but there was nothing that Starsky might have picked out as 'girly'. The curtains were plain, a pale yellow. The rug bore a geometric pattern in grays and muted greens. A row of photographs of what looked like family and a small collection of crystal ornaments lined the bookshelf, over a row of music albums, and another of novels and history books.

The tan couch Starsky sat on had a throw over the end of it. Bold red-brown and forest green plaid. It looked strangely out of place in the otherwise serene color scheme of the room.

John had always had a fondness for plaid. He'd used to joke that it was because his mother was half-Scottish.

"I didn't recognize you last time," Whitelaw said from behind him, causing Starsky to jump. He handed Starsky a glass, before seating himself in the armchair with his own. "John didn't have pictures to show me, but he talked about you sometimes."

Starsky gripped his glass tightly before mechanically taking a gulp. He didn't dare look up. He wasn't sure how he felt about John telling Whitelaw about him.

"He said you were a bit rash, but a good kid."

"Not a kid anymore," he returned, and immediately felt foolish.

"No," Whitelaw agreed, and he seemed to close off again.

Starsky cast about for something to say, and even he was surprised when he came up with, "Tell me why I should vote for you."

"Excuse me?"

Starsky frowned, suddenly impatient. "Forget all the 'Gay Candidate, Straight Deal' junk for a second. You want to get in a position to spend our tax dollars. All right. Tell me what you want to spend it on."

Whitelaw looked angry for a moment, but then it settled into a thoughtful look. He sat back and seemed to study Starsky, perhaps judging the seriousness of his question. Finally, he started: "Funding for schools is top of my list. Not just dollars, but evaluating and improving efficiency of expenditure. There's a lot that we can offer our kids if..."

Starsky listened to Whitelaw talk, hearing him gradually get more and more excited as he warmed to the topic. He went on from schools to libraries, and then, after hesitating a moment, he started talking about law enforcement. He seemed to know a lot about what cops always complained about, and what problems needed solving. Starsky had no doubt where Whitelaw had gotten that information.

Whitelaw, Starsky realized, really wanted to do this. Maybe he'd started on an ideal and a belly full of mad, but he wanted to change the city for the better. He really thought he could. When he got excited about what he was saying, Starsky could see the walled-off man he'd first met turning into an impassioned orator. A teacher.

Starsky could see John respecting such a man. Even becoming friends with him. But more than that...?

"David. I know you don't want to hear this, but I have to tell you."

John stood beside Whitelaw's armchair, his hand resting on the back of it. He looked seriously at Starsky, almost defiant. Whitelaw shifted forward, sweeping a hand up to make a point -- and John was gone.

"I have to go." Starsky had drunk his glass of orange juice without having noticed. It was a good thing, too, or it would have spilled when he stood up so abruptly.

Whitelaw was staring at him, and he realized he had one hand lifted as if to catch hold of something. Or someone. Evidently deciding to take it in stride, Whitelaw stood as well and took Starsky's outstretched hand in a handshake. "Does this mean I have your vote, Detective Starsky?"

It was only with difficulty that Starsky focused on the man in front of him. "You'll find out on election day," he answered.

He let Whitelaw collect his glass and show him to the door.

 

***

 

The street was quiet at this time of day. It was roasting outside. Even the kids must be feeling it. Everybody in his right mind would be lounging about indoors, waiting for dusk. Like the other lawns on the street, the grass in front of the Blaine house was going dry and brown. Aside from that, though, not much about the house had changed in over twenty years.

Starsky remembered visiting the pretty, newlywed couple all the time, remembered John practicing football plays with him out front, remembered Maggie bringing out lemonade and laughing at them with those gorgeous gray-green eyes. He'd been half in love with Maggie back then, and all the way in love with the both of them. They'd looked like something out of a storybook to him.

Had John been unhappy even then? When had he started going to clubs and sneaking around? What must that have been like?

He tried to imagine it. If he had married Helen, say, and he discovered that he couldn't love her enough. If he couldn't make her happy, because there was something wrong inside him, something he couldn't change no matter how much he tried. And he could never talk about it, because he would lose his job, and because it would upset so many people...

_I should have noticed. I'm a detective, aren't I? What damned good is that shield if I can't even figure out when my friends are in trouble?_

There was no going back. No point in what-ifs. Starsky had had to learn to accept that a long time ago. He jabbed his key in the ignition and took the long way home, rolling the window down and trying to blank his mind, telling himself it was the heat making him feel so frustrated and sore.

"I never wanted to hurt you, David, but you have to know the truth."

He turned quickly around on the landing of his house, but only the empty stairway met him. From inside, he heard the sound of his phone, and he hastily jumped to grab it on the end of the third ring, relieved for the distraction. "Hello?"

"David?"

For a moment, he was caught completely speechless. "Maggie! What's... How are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you. David, were you here earlier? I thought I heard your car."

Something told him she wouldn't call him on it if he lied, but he couldn't be another man she accepted that from. He leaned against the wall and answered, "Yeah. I just... I don't know."

When he didn't say any more, she continued, "You should have rung the doorbell. The place is a bit of a mess, but I could have given you a glass of water at least."

"I didn't want to disturb you."

"Don't be such a stranger. Why don't you and Ken come over sometime? We-- I still owe you two that dinner."

"Sure. Okay. That'd be... That'd be real nice, Maggie. Thanks."

"This Friday all right? I'll make beef pot pies. You used to love them."

"Yeah, still do. Especially yours."

"Seven o' clock."

"Okay."

There was silence for a moment, an awkward stretch of non-dialogue. "Well, I'll see you then."

"Maggie," he said quickly. He gripped the receiver tight. "Maggie, John loved you."

She sighed. Her voice was tired and slightly indulgent when she answered, "I know, David. I never doubted it."

Starsky felt a relief that he didn't quite understand.

 

***

 

It was late enough that the hallway traffic was noticeably lighter. Starsky stuck his hands in his pockets as he made his way to the office down the hall that he hadn't visited enough while John was alive. What had happened, anyway? He grew up, and he forgot the people who had helped him get to where he was?

His footsteps slowed as he neared the doorway. He remembered the smell of leftover heat, the strap of his holster chafing him even through his shirt. Hutch had declared he was driving in separately the next day, but even his grumbling had been tempered by the clear sense of victory they'd felt at a bust gone down well -- and the high of a near miss.

 _"Big Bad Blaine_ , _"_ he'd said, _"we owe you one_ , _"_ so happy, never noticing anything different or peculiar about John -- then, or any other time. He touched the doorframe now, the one Hutch had leaned against so nonchalantly, and he looked inside at the dim, cleared out room. John's personal items had been delivered to Maggie, and the office supplies squirreled away by Resources. There was an interim Lieutenant next door, but this room hadn't yet been assigned to someone new.

"David. Listen, I-- I'm gay."

John, his hands folded in front of him, looked down at the desk, dejection in every slump of his body. He looked desperately lonely, in his usual place that had been stripped down of any sign of his former occupancy. He looked transparent, as if dust motes could flit right through him.

"John--!"

But he was gone again before Starsky could say anything more.

Starsky stared at the empty desk, in front of the empty wall, in the empty room. Turning, he ran through the halls and down into the garage. He leaped into his car and raced it out onto the street, eventually coming to a screeching stop and parking on auto-pilot.

He ran up the stairs and knocked on the door at the top. He kept knocking when he heard, "Who is it?" Kept knocking when he heard, "Come in!" Leaned against the door jamb and just kept pounding his fist into the door over and over and over and over...

"What the hell do you want?" The door opened, and his partner stood there in an apron and brandishing a fruit knife. He did a double-take before lowering his ersatz weapon. "Starsky?"

"Hutch," he croaked.

"C'mon inside." Starsky's feet were like lead bricks. It was as if he'd used up all of his energy getting here, and now he had none left. He could barely get over the threshold far enough for Hutch to close the door. "I just put a casserole in the oven. You wanna stay for dinner?" Hutch went over to drop the knife in the sink and take off his apron. Starsky could only watch.

"I would've been okay with it," he blurted.

Hutch looked at him. And it was magical, really. Starsky didn't understand how Hutch did it, because one minute Starsky was feeling fine, and the next, he was bawling like a baby -- but somehow Hutch had crossed the room and had wrapped his arms tight around him as soon as the choking spasms started.

He cried like he had when his Terry died. He cried like he had the first time he'd telephoned his ma cross-country. He cried like he had the day they put his pop in the ground. He cried like he was a leaky old house that had just cracked open, all the water that had filled the attic and the insides of the walls bursting out, plaster and rotted wood and flotsam all over the floor. He imagined the room filling up, the ankles of their pants getting wet and filthy in the flood.

"I wish he'd told me," he stuttered, when he could barely speak again. He clutched the folds of Hutch's shirt, trying so hard to just tear out all the hurt. Hutch was stroking his back, and they were still standing three feet in from the goddamn door. "Why didn't he tell me?" he gasped. "Oh god, I could've... I could've told him it was okay."

"Shh, shh, I know, Starsky, I know."

"It wouldn't've mattered. If I just... If I'd just had some time..."

"I know."

"I-- I'm not just saying this because he's dead."

"I know."

Starsky pushed Hutch away, suddenly angry. He dragged his sleeves across his face to blot out the worst of the mess. "Do you?" Hutch looked back at him, silent. "How do you know that, huh? I ain't all sophisticated like you. I can't talk so casually about... about gay men and gay bars and _fucking_ gay rights. I never stop feeling funny if I think about a guy coming on to me. How do you know I would've accepted John while he was alive? Huh?  _How can you possibly know?_ "

"Aw, Starsk." Hutch took gentle hold of either side of his head. His pale blue eyes shifted between Starsky's own. "Starsky, you loved him."

He tried to shake his head, but Hutch's hands wouldn't let him. He put his hands over Hutch's instead, soaking up the warmth of them. "It's not really that simple. Is it?" he pleaded, despairing for an easy answer.

But Hutch had one. He stroked Starsky's cheekbones with his thumbs, wiping away some of the wetness but mostly just providing comfort. His face had an expression that looked like pride. "For you, Starsky, it is."

And Starsky finally knew in his heart that it was.

  
END.

 _"Well, how would you have felt about him if he'd told you?"_  
_"I... I don't know."_  
_"Maybe that's why he stayed in the closet."_  


**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this story, you might try these:  
>      [Beginnings And Endings](http://community.livejournal.com/starskyhutch911/140673.html) (Starsky & Hutch), by kuonji   
>      [The Other Twenty-Five](http://community.livejournal.com/starskyhutch911/118530.html) (Starsky & Hutch), by kuonji   
>      [A Woman's World](http://kuonji14.livejournal.com/14956.html) (Stargate SG-1), by kuonji   
>      [Moving On](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/2540099/1/) (Gundam Seed), by kuonji   
>      [The Salt Point](http://www.starskyhutcharchive.com/starskyhutchslash/classic/Ortiz/SaltPoint1.htm) (Starsky & Hutch), by Isabel Ortiz   
>      [Borderland](http://pepper-ckua.livejournal.com/23103.html) (Starsky & Hutch), by Pepper   


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